Vindication
by Gertrude-04
Summary: When a mission goes poorly, Gambit is taken captive. As time goes on, he begins to doubt the circumstances surrounding his capture, and his own sanity. Third chapter up! Rated for language, and slightly mature subject mature.
1. Chapter One

A/N: So I know it's not that long, but I have what I consider to be tremendous ideas for this story. This chapter was intended only to introduce a few things, and the following updates will be longer. I hope you enjoy, but as always, let me know what you think either way.

Also, single quotations (' ') denotes Remy thinking to himself.

* * *

'Ugh....Cyclops is going to kill me.'

It was strange the thoughts that first entered a person's head upon waking from unconsciousness. At a time when Remy LeBeau should've been concerned with his personal safety, the majority of his thoughts were centred on the opinion of his team leader. Odd, when one considers the tendency of Remy's to thumb his nose at anyone even remotely resembling an authority figure. After sufficient time had been spent wondering about what the anal-retentive man known as Cyclops, and the rest of his morally astute teammates, would think, Remy's next thoughts were focused on the wedge that was currently being forced through his forehead. It was a pain not unlike a hangover, but the night before a mission even the rebellious Remy was unlikely to go drinking. For a long while he was relatively content to remain where he was, simply breathing in and out while he considered his next move. He was hesitant to open his eyes, for fear of what would greet him when he did. Recent memory alluded him, like trying to remember a dream that stubbornly stay hidden away. That, combined with the almost paralyzing pain in his head, would suggest a concussion. Add that to the sharp twinge on his left side, probaby a broken rib, and one would tend to think that their mission had been less than successful. That much seemed obvious, though. If the mission had been a success, Remy would be at Harry's bar celebrating with a round of beers, trying to get into the pants of the newly hired waitress, not lying on some concrete floor wondering how he got there. There was a dripping sound in the background, like a nagging voice in the back of his mind that wouldn't leave him alone. And he was cold. Not as cold as Antarctica, he doubted he could ever be that cold again, but cold enough to have to clench his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. He opened his eyes slowly, so as to let his photosensitive red on black eyes adjust to the floruscent lighting overhead.

He was laying in a twelve by twelve concrete cell, sprawled out in the middle of the floor. A rusted out cot with a pancake thin mattress stood in one corner, while a simple silver bucket stood in the other. The room had an odd smell, like a mixture of mold and urine, that made Remy think he was not the first person to have inhabited it. Upon this thought, he subconsciously shifted away from the suspicious bucket. It was only through the gift of his rather unusual eyesight that he was able to see the doorframe; the seams were too tight and hidden away for normal eyesight. At the top of the door was the tiniest of windows, barely big enough for a pair of eyes to peer through. He was both relieved and intensely frustrated to see he was alone; alone was certainly better than being in the company of enemies, but part of him had been fervently hoping that one or more of his teammates would be nearby. He was hoping that they would be able to shed some light on this rather murky situation.

Remy pushed himself off the floor with his right arm, holding his left close to his chest. He was wearing the same white t-shirt he had put on that morning, but the pants were different than the ones he had worn underneath his body armour. They were thin, felt almost like pajama pants. Light, washed out blue, with a drawstring in the front, they could've been scrubs from a nearby hospital. He wasn't wearing shoes. He sat back on his heels, and reached up to run a hand through his unruly auburn mop. Quite abruptly, his hand froze on the back of his neck as he felt the blood drain from his face. Just beneath his hairline his fingers had encountered a patch of dried blood, underneath which he could feel something imbedded in the muscle. It was small, about the size of a microchip, but Remy feared it nonetheless. In his experience, anything that possibly tied in to the neural system of a mutants' body just screamed 'power suppresion.' In order to prove his frightful theory, he stood with only marginal difficulty.

Remy had the uncanny ability to shift the potential energy in any object, and convert it to kinetic energy; essentially making anything he could physically touch a weapon. But two of his less obvious mutations included a sort of spatial awareness, which made his sometimes incredible agility possible, and an empathic sense, being able to pick up on and influence the emotions of others. He stretched forward with these senses now, angular features twisting into a grimace with the effort. He felt as if he was being smothered by a thick, lead blanket that disrupted his powers the same way it did x-ray radiation. He cursed softly to himself, in a Cajun french that sounded more like a lullaby than a string of expletives. Whoever it was that held him, and for whatever indiscernable reason, they knew who they were dealing with.

He stepped up to the door, and ran his hands along the seams, searching for a weak point, or a subtle gust of air that would indicate there was a gap in the door and the frame. No such luck. It seemed to Remy as though it had been perfectly constructed, possibley even vacuum sealed. One delicate auburn eyebrow rose at that thought. If it was indeed as he suspected, then it was clear whoever held him was not taking any chances. Perhaps they had heard of his reputation, or it could be simpler than that. Maybe they were part of the startingly large group of laymen who thought mutantcy was something a person could "catch." He really had no way of knowing.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he heard the sound of several sets of footsteps echoing around the hall outside. Without a sound he slipped into the corner closest to the door's hinges, the twinge in his ribs forgotten for necessity. The owners of the noisy feet stepped up to the door, and a slightly musical touch tone pattern could be heard. Remy frowned. If the locking mechanism was electric, and connected to a keypad, it would be more difficult to break out. But certainly not impossible. Not for Gambit, master thief extraordinaire.

The door was pushed open slowly, and the muzzle of a heavy looking machine gun was thrust through. Remy's frown deepened further. He was good, but not that good. Maybe if he was one hundred percent, he might be able to avoid the gunfire while making a break for the door, but not now. And definitely not in a twelve by twelve concrete box. The door opened wider, and a man stepped through, wearing worn army fatigues, complete with a dirty green berret on his head. He looked young, baby-ish features and blond hair gave him the appearance of a recent highschool graduate. He looked nervous, like he was going to piss his pants any minute, and Remy wondered what his superiors had told him about mutants, and this mutant in particular.

Remy knew guns, as part of his career he felt it was necessary and so he wisely chose not to go up against his captures with a Troy M14 in the hands of the twitchy point man. He knew exactly what that gun could do at this close range. Instead he merely stepped out of the corner, with his arms raised and palms showing in a gesture of surrender. The guard whirled around, and Remy noticed the gun trembling in his grasp.

"Sit down,"the guard said, in a surprisingly strong tone. "Sit your ass down on the cot."

Gambit made a show of inspecting the cot from afar, then wrinkled his nose in disgust. "If it's jus' de same t'ya, I'd rather not. Ya never know dese days, enh?"

The guard's brow crinkled in a deep frown, and Remy unconsciously steeled his body, waiting for the lash of anger to erupt. When the blows didn't come, and the gun was shaking so badly Remy was sure the bullets would tumble right out, he took pity on the boy. He obviously didn't want to be in that cell, pointing a gun at somebody he didn't even know. Gambit shot him a "you owe-me-but-I'll-never-be-able-to-make-you-pay-up" look, and hesitantly sat down on the mattress. When nothing jumped out at him, and he didn't get swallowed up into a green glob of slime, his body relaxed somewhat.

The guard looked amusingly satisfied, and he must have sent some kind of message to the remainder of the men out in the hallway, because three more dressed in similar outfits came through the open door. Two were holding long, metal cylinders with two silver prongs on the end, probably tasers. The man closest to Remy was remarkabley comparable to the highschool grad, as if they were related in some way. The new arrival was in slightly better control than his counterpart; the taser in his grasp was solid and unmoving. The third man, holding the only other taser, had sharp, angry features like a hawk, only a few inches shorter than Remy but twice as wide as him with bulky muscle. His dark green eyes rested on Remy hungrily, in a way that made the mutant's heart beat a little faster. The last man, obviously the oldest and the one in charge, held the second gun in his capable hands. His hair was mostly black with patches of grey coming in at the temples; he glared at Remy with open disdain and disgust.

"You mind tellin' me what's goin' on?"Remy asked, focusing his question on the machine gun pointed at his forehead. It wasn't the first time he'd had a gun in his face, but back then all he had to do was lay on a finger on it and walk away. The resulting charge was enough to make even the most aggressive of enemies back down. He was unfortunately not in such a position now.

The guard moved with more speed than Remy would've credited him. Before he had time to wince, the butt of the gun was swung straight to his jaw. He was knocked back against the bunk, his eyes blinking furiously in surprise. He straightened after a moment, sent the man a glare of his own, and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

"I ask the questions around here, you goddam mutie freak. My orders are only to keep you alive. Think about that the next time you want to open your mouth."

Gambit said nothing, but his eyes veritably glowed with anger. He glanced briefly at the other guards, but his gaze settled on the man before him. He nodded. The last thing he wanted to do was play with ball with these tyrants, but if it was a choice between that, and getting beaten to death..he could suffer the humiliation of following their orders for a short time. The guard kicked out, heavily booted foot hitting the edge of the bunk just between Remy's knees.

"You're being held here until my boss decides what to do with you." He must've read the question in Remy's eyes, for he shook his head with a sadistic smile. "And if you think I'm stupid enough to tell you who that is, we're gonna have even more fun than I thought. Until my boss decides just what is the best way to break you, you're ours. Anything we want, whenever we want it. You're gonna give it to us."

Remy couldn't help but cringe. His words were menacing, but he could also detect the promise beneath the fury. He'd met people like this man before, and to this day he was still trying to forget them. The guard was foolish if he expected Remy to just lie back and take whatever it was they were dishing out, though. If that's how he thought it was clear he hadn't done his homework.

"I wouldn't expect rescuing, either. Not only do the X-Men not even know where you are, but I doubt they would come even if they did. All you ever did was betray them. Why in hell would they want you back?"

The collection of guards behind their superior exchanged glances, and smirked to each other. Remy was beginning to wonder if he had jumped the gun, so to speak, in thinking that they hadn't done their homework. A nervous stirring had began in his stomach, but he would not panic. Not yet, anyway. He had been in worse situations and come out okay, there was no reason to believe that wouldn't happen this time. He had to assume that while this guard was clearly not on his side, he was right about the X-Men. He could not depend on being rescued. Instead, Remy would have to run with the assumption that he was on his own.

"Before we go, there's something I would like to give you. A little souvenir to remember me by."

The head guard produced a military issue straight edged blade. Remy's reaction was immediate. He flew from the mattress, knocking the first guard to the floor and attempting to do the same with the other three. In his weakened condition, however, it was entirely too difficult for them to restrain him. Before too long, he was back on the cot, this time with one guard on his legs, the other on his arms, and the last lying across his midsection. Despite the rather uncomfortable form of restriction, Remy writhed and thrashed like a cat that knew what was coming.

The guard he had knocked down got to his feet, his features twisted into a enraged scowl. "That, little man, was not the right thing to do."

The closer he got to Remy with that knife in his hand, the more frantic Remy's endeavours to free himself became. But all it took was for the guard laying across his chest to press his hand in just the wrong spot, forcing broken bones and already firey nerves into unnatural positions, and Remy was seeing stars. He thought he felt the guard armed with a knife kneel on the cot next to his head, but the pain was making his vision swim, and he wasn't sure of anything anymore. After a brief fight with unconsciousness, he could feel a sharp tugging on his head that would increase in intensity for a few seconds, then gradually fade away.

He became aware that someone was speaking, and focused on their words to ground him, bring him back through the agony to reality.

"...oughta learn ya, damn mutie." Remy blinked several times, in rapid succession, in an attempt to clear his vision. Another sharp pain against his scalp, then in one sychronized motion, all the guards moved away from him, and he was free. He sat up slowly, stiffly, to keep the pain in his ribs from sparking up again. The guards all smirked at him, as though they were in on some kind of secret he would never know. He didn't like that feeling. The head guard chuckled softly, and that was when Remy noticed the medium sized pile of auburne hair sitting at his feet. The colour drained from his face in a rush as he brought his hand up to his head, and could feel only the prickly spikes of newly cut stubble.

'Cyclops is definitely going to kill me.'

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Please bear with me! To be continued... 


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Okay, so I know it's been a while. I'm terribly sorry about that. It drives me crazy to have to wait months for an update, so I understand. All I can say is I lost the plot bunnies for a while. But they're back now, have taken up residence under my desk, so all is well. I thought it would be a good idea to further show my apologetic-ness by answering to all of your reviews personally. Here goes:

Brazos- This chapter is dedicated to you. Your dedication to my work astounds me, and you are pretty much single handedly responsible for this update, and the others that will follow. Incidently, if you want to contact me through email (sometimes all I need is a not so delicate prod in the mental behind), my email is the same as my penname, at hotmail. Look forward to hearing from you. And many thanks!

Equinox- In theory, I agree with you. Updates are good, and I am very close to them. The only problem is sometimes they won't answer my damn calls! Not to worry, though. I finally got in touch with them. Thanks for the much needed push!

Snufit- I hate to keep you waiting. If you read this one really slowly, maybe it can last you until the next one. Or maybe I could just get off my butt and write with some kind of schedule. You know, either or.

lelann- In time, all will be revealed. Sit tight, and the everything will be unravelled. Or is it ravelled? Oh, you know what I mean. Forget the metaphor, it will all be explained. Eventually.

pashtess- A tortured Remy makes for good reading. I could hardly go against the grain, could I? Thanks for your support!

Imaq- I hope you stay that way. And I hope you keep letting me know. ;p

Shockgoddess- I love the Outsiders! But I have to tell you...glances around conspiratorially...I don't like long hair on guys. I have to fight the urge to cut off his hair in all my writing. ducks and assumes fetal position to shield body from blows and flying objects Thanks for your comments!

Aethena- Intrigue is my middle name. Well, not really. It's Kathleen. Not nearly as cool, is it? Anyways, I reread this chapter a bunch of times, so hopefully I missed any mistakes. I should probably apologize in advance, cause I'm sure I didn't catch all of them.

BJ2- see Shockgoddess. Again, I'm sorry about the hair. But it can grow back, right? listens to angry grumbling Right?

Once again, you guys are magnificant! I'm sorry if I missed anyone. Every single comment is much appreciated, and keeps me motivated. Anyways, enough boring you. On with the story!

* * *

The guards left him alone in the twelve by twelve concrete box with that pile of hair at his feet, looking for all the world as if he was paying homage to a past life. He remained on the bunk, hadn't moved since his captors had bid him farewell. For a time. Remy swiped a hand over the newly created spikes, and sighed softly. It was only beginning to crack through his shell that maybe he was in a situation. A bad situation. Oddly enough, it hadn't been the guard's brutality that did it, or his promises of what was to come. It was sitting on the bunk, staring down dejectedly at the pile of dead cells.

That's all hair was, really. Dead cells, and a few more things Hank had explained at length at one point, but for the life of him Remy couldn't recall. He mourned the loss though. There had been a point in his life when his hair had defined who he was. He hid behind it, behind the image of him it provided. Although it had been quite some time since he had felt that way, he nevertheless regretted having to lose it.

Remy was sure they had cut off his hair as a way to break him. The guard whose hand had held the offending knife had spoken of a "boss", a person above him who apparently made all the decisions regarding their captive. The guard had implied through rather obvious words that they were trying to dispirit him, probably to a point where he didn't care what happened. And it seemed as if they thought the way to begin that process was to remove all ties to his old life, starting with his clothes and hair. Instead of weakening him, staring down at the heap of auburn strands served only to strengthen his resolve. Their obnoxious assumptions angered him, until he could do nothing but clench his hands into fists and hope he would get his chance. After another minute, he swept the hair under the cot with a bare foot.

For the countless time that hour, Remy's thoughts drifted back to what the head guard had said after trying to knock his teeth out through the back of his head. The realization that Remy's captors knew who the X-Men were, let alone that he was one, was worrisome. It gave an even worse spin on already horrible circumstances. Over the many years the X-Men had been operating, they had made an innumerable amount of enemies, mutant and human alike. If one group were to decide they wanted revenge, capturing one of those on the team, even someone not in the X-Men's total confidence like Remy, would be a damn good way to start. Torture in the hands of someone he didn't even know hadn't been an ambition at any point in his life.

He fell back on the cot with a heavy sigh. Remy had cleaned up his face as best he could after the guards left, but without water or ice to help, he still looked like he went twenty rounds with Mike Tyson and lost. His bottom lip was split and swollen to a point that made it difficult to close his mouth. And he was more sure now than he had been earlier that his rib was broken, and not merely bruised. That would certainly make escape more of a challenge.

All subsequent thoughts suddenly absolved to nothing as he heard, for the second time in as many hours, the sound of footsteps coming from the hall outside. This time was different than earlier, though; for starters Remy was certain he could only discern one pair of boots. And, he got the feeling that the owner of these boots was trying, and failing rather miserabley as a matter of fact, to be sneaky and inconspicuous. He didn't rise from the cot, only pushing himself up onto his elbows as the door was unlocked and opened slowly.

He noticed immediately that the precautions of the earlier visit were far more lax in this one. The simple fact that it was one guard and not a whole squadron made that observation blaringly obvious. Also, said guard was armed only with a taser. Remy watched with interest as the guard set a piece of wiring in the doorjamb, and allowed the door to fall closed against it, keeping the seal open but holding an illusion of being shut.

"You all by your little bitty lonesome?"Remy smirked as the guard straightened. "Y'sure dat's safe? Mutants are dangerous, y'know."

The guard turned to face him, and Remy recognized the hungry glint in dark green eyes as his stomach dropped. The man's features twisted into a feral smile.

"Oh, I'm pretty confident you'll behave yourself." He held the taser loosely in one hand, and ran a finger up its stock with the other. "You know what this is? It's called the Advanced Air Taser M18. Most advanced in its field." He tapped the nozzle of the gun shaped taser. "It's got two little darts in here. I fire this baby, and I could hit you anywhere from fifteen feet away. The shock disrupts your nervous system, so no matter where I hit you, you go down like you're having a fucking seizure. It only lasts a couple of minutes, but sometimes that's all I need."

"Yeah, I bet,"Remy muttered under his breath. He shifted back on the cot as the guard stepped closer, still fingering the muzzle slowly.

The guard stopped when his shins hit the edge of the bunk, but Remy didn't. He scooted as far back into the corner as he could, the only thing between him and the filthy guard was his near palpable disgust. The _Faucon _didn't appear to notice the manner in which his capture viewed him. Remy glanced past him, and was unable to hide the longing on his face as he stared at the near open door. The _Faucon _smirked at this.

"I wouldn't try it. It's unlikely you could make it out of here without me getting you with this baby," -he kissed the stock of the taser gun- "But even if you somehow managed to get away from me, you'd never make it out of here alive. Not without some serious help, and I think we both know help's not coming. Leastways, not for you."

Remy shifted his gace back to the nightmarish features of the guard. Again, if he thought that Remy would simply lie down and take whatever they dished out, he had another thing coming. He only needed to wait a moment for the opportune moment before acting. It came when the _Faucon _lifted his right leg to kneel on the edge of the cot. Remy struck like a coiled cobra, lashing out with his left foot and hammering it home into the guard's most vulnerable parts. From there, he could've knocked him over with a feather, if Warren had've been handy. He made a mad dash for the door, but never made it.

True to his sales pitch, the _Faucon _was a little over eleven feet away when he fired the taser from his fetal position next to the cot. The darts embedded themselves in the middle of Remy's back, and just as the guard had predicted, he dropped with a strangled gasp like a marionette with his strings cut. The shock to his system left him helpless to do anything but twitch spasmadically on the floor for several minutes while the compromised guard recovered.

"You're going to live to regret that,"the _Faucon _growled, as he struggled to his feet. He staggered across the floor, bent gracelessly to grab Remy by the neck of his t-shirt. Without any offered resistance, he was able to drag the trembling Cajun back to the cot with little difficulty. Remy was tossed unceremoniously onto the mattress and lay there twitching for a long minute.

"You're not...gonna...get away...with this..." His words were staggered and slurred, but the intent was obvious. The guard laughed, spraying a fine mist of spittle over an unprotesting Cajun.

"What, are you gonna do something about it?" He rose to his feet with little difficulty, and knelt on the edge of the cot, supporting himself with an arm on either side of Remy's head. "You're hardly in a position to tell me what to do."

He leaned down closer, his lips moving right next to Remy's ear. For his part, Remy was unable to do more than stare at him with fire in his eyes.

"See, I like you. Something about the way you move...the way you're hair falls over your forehead..." He reached out with one hand to gently brush a lock of auburn hair out of Remy's eyes. "And I always get what I want. Just wait and see." He placed a quick, almost chaste kiss on Remy's cheek, then straightened, and locked the door carefully behind him.

Remy squeezed his eyes shut, and for an indeterminable amount of time lay shuddering on the cot. It was worse than he thought. Being held captive without his powers and no way of knowing if the rest of the team was all right didn't even hold a candle to having a psychotic guard with a taser lusting after him. He'd lived through similar experiences before, and had no desire to suffer through repeat performances. He sighed, forgot about his earlier concerns about the condition of the mattress, and pressed his face against the rough cloth. He was on his own.

* * *

Gradually over the next few days, a routine slowly started to develop. The guards would come in before he had woken, three would train their guns on him while the forth would rip him out of his restless sleep. They would cuff him, knock him around a bit, then blindfold him and drag him down the hall to a different room. Remy memorized the exact number of steps, and every change in direction between his cell and what the guards had coined 'the Playhouse.' He was unsure of when the knowledge would come in handy, but it felt better to have it. Once they arrived in the Playhouse, the guards would knock him around a bit more, then strap him to a chair not unlike one you would occupy at the dentists office. While he was there, they tortured him in every way imaginable, from burning him with branding irons, to pushing nails through his palms, to tasering him over and over again. Never enough to permanently damage him, apart from scars, but just enough so that every night he prayed a bolt of lightning would break through the roof and melt the bastards until they were little more than a grease stain in the cement. They gave no explanation for what they doing, just increased the pain whenever he tried to reason with them.

There was no sign of the X-Men. He really had no way of knowing how long he had been in these freaks' custody, but he guessed it to be about a week. Every day he asked about his teammates, if they were alive, if they were somewhere in the building with him. Everyday he was told to shut his fucking mutie mouth. The torture along with the lack of information and the poor diet they kept him on had zapped his strength so completely he wondered if he could escape if they left all the doors open and handed him a wheelchair. It was getting to the point where he couldn't stand up on his own. Frequent random visits from the guard he had come to know as _Faucon _had him on increased hypervigilance around the clock, and the constant weak adrenaline running through his body was wearing him out.

On the eighth day, though, everything changed. They had just dumped him back on his blood stained cot after another session in the Playhouse, when the door to his cell opened. He rolled over, pushed his face into the mattress, and clasped his hands behind his back. He had resisted strongly the first few days, but had soon learned that if he hoped to survive long enough to get out, he had better play by the rules. And these people were nothing if not cautious.

It was different though. Instead of the guards heavy steps on the cement floor, it sounded like a pair of high heels nearing him cautiously.

"Remy?"

He froze. It couldn't be. Not here. God, please, not here.

"You okay, sugah?"

A sob burst forth from his mouth before he could bit it down. He felt the cot dip slightly next to him as his visitor sat down, then a pair of gentle hands landed on his shoulders, squeezing softly. "It's all right now, Remy. I'm here." A pair of lips pressed against the back of his neck, right below his inhibitor chip.

"Rogue?" His words were muffled by the mattress; he lifted his face and rolled over stiffly.

"It's me." Tears abruptly filled his eyes. She was perfection. As beautiful as he had ever seen her, more so, if possible. Her long, wavy brown hair hung down her shoulders like a waterfall, the ends tickling his bare arm as she smiled down at him. She was dressed in what he had come to think of as her uniform, green and yellow leotard with an olive green flight jacket overtop. She leaned down, placed a careful kiss on his forehead. His eyes widened, and a stray tear broke free from the others, running down his temple and past his hairline.

"Chere? But how...?"

She laid a finger against his lips, hushing him quietly. "Don't worry about it, sugah. Everything's all right now."

He rose into a sitting position, and pulled her into a sudden bonecrashing hug. "God, Rogue, I missed y'so much. T'ough y'all were dead. Dey didn't tell me anyt'ing...t'ought I was de only one left." Remy hid his face in the crook of her neck, tears spilling silently down his cheeks and onto her skin as he breathed in her scent.

"We're all right, Rem. No thanks to you, though." Her inflection didn't change, so it took nearly a full minute before Remy realised what it was she had said. At the same time he noticed something else; the scent was all wrong. Rogue didn't allow anything that wasn't vanilla scented to touch her body. Her shampoo, soap, even deoderant and perfum were all vanilla. Some of the X-Men found it strange, Remy knew, but he loved it, for everytime he smelled anything vanilla, he was reminded of how she made him feel. In his condition, he noticed that blaring difference rather easily.

He straightened, frowning at her, removed his arms from around her, and scooted backwards on the cot.

"What's the matter, sugah?" She leaned forward towards him, reaching out to touch his knee with one hand.

He jerked away with near violent force. Remy didn't know what was going on, but something wasn't right. "What did y'say, Rogue?"

The puzzled expression melted away from her face, and she smiled kindly. "Ah said we're okay. But it's no thanks to you." She squeezed his knee. "It's our fault, really. You betrayed us once, we should've known you would do it again."

His mouth hung open, gaping like a fish out of water. "But...Remy...chere, Remy didn't betray you. He mean...not again."

Sorrow replaced contentment on her features. "It's not really your fault either, Rem. Ah guess you're just one of those people who doesn't form loyalties. It's too bad we didn't know before. Then maybe Scott would still have both arms, Storm wouldn't be paralyzed."

Shock froze his body once more. "Paralyzed?"

He shot to his feet, the hurricane of emotions whipping through his mind overriding the weariness and constant pain that had settled over his body in the recent days. He paced in front of Rogue, three long strides took him from wall to wall. He muttered softly to himself, clenching and unclenching his hands. "Dis can't be happening. Storm can't be paralyzed. Remy didn' betray anyone. Somet'ing's not right..."

He halted, staying his movement so quickly he overbalanced and nearly toppled over. His vague impression that something was wrong had developed into a full blown certainty. He returned to Rogue's side, crouched next of her. She watched with what could pass as love in her eyes as he reached out and gently lifted the hair from the nape of her neck.

"Aha. Remy was right." He let her hair fall back into place, and sat back on his heels, smirking and crossing his arms over his chest. "Where's y'mole?"

She touched the back of her neck with one hand, and frowned. "What are ya talkin' about, sugah?"

"Y'mole. You have...dat is, Remy's Rogue has a mole on de back of her neck. Jes' a little one, usually hidden by her hair. It's not dere. Who de fuck are you, and what have y'done wit' Rogue?"

The creature, for lack of a better word, sitting before him rose gracefully to its feet, and stretched languidly. "All right, you're better than I gave you credit for." Its features melted into obscurity, and Remy soon found himself face to face with a fairly bland looking green skinned middle aged man. He scowled.

"A shapeshifter. Very clever. She was almost perfect, too. But y'didn' do y'homework."

The other shook his head, sneering at Remy. "It doesn't matter. You can't beat these people. No one can. By resisting you're only delaying the inevitable. They never lose, and you're in for a hell of a fight if you believe otherwise."

Remy squared his shoulders, raised his chin and stuck his jaw out defiantly in a way he hadn't done since being captured. "Well, dey never come 'gainst Remy LeBeau, monsieur. Y' damn right it'll be a helluva fight. But y'bet y'money on de wrong winner."

The shapeshifter shook his head slowly. "Are you so sure about that?" Once again his countenance dissolved, and this time reformed into familiar mocha coloured features. Remy stiffened, his upper lip raising in an angry growl.

"You are on your own, my brother." Pseudo-Storm crossed the floor to stand in front of him, head held high in a regal stance. "You have not fought a battle of this magnitude without the X-Men since before we met. Are you so certain you can do it now, while you are so obviously weak and malnourished?"

Remy sub-consciously reached up with one hand to smooth his fingers over the depressed hollows of his cheeks. His mind knew that wasn't the real Storm, but his heart was having a difficult time believing it. If the shapeshifter's Rogue had been less than adequate, his Storm was damn impressive. She looked equisite, right down to the brilliant sheen of her white hair. His chest tightened painfully at seeing her, and yet knowing it wasn't her.

He puffed his chest out, clenched his hands into fist. The shapeshifter saw this defiance as a challenge, and promptly shifted into a form so unexpected a gasp issued from Remy's mouth before he could stop himself. Jean Luc LeBeau smiled down at him, reached out and gently touched Remy's cheek. "Allo, mon fils. Y'look well."

He managed to keep himself from answering in kind, but wiping the wistful and loving expression from his face would've required non-Cyclops approved use of his powerful explosive abilities.

"You disappoint me, Remy,"Jean Luc said, his rich timbre voice reverbating around the small room. "De man I knew, de t'ief I knew, woulda never let himself be caught like dis. Maybe I failed you, fils. For you have certainly failed me."

Remy bit the inside of his cheek until the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth to avoid responding to the condemnation. Although most would never believe it, Remy was a deeply insecure individual. He desperately needed approval, and so hearing these words from his father's form, even knowing they weren't his thoughts, cut deep into his soul.

Jean Luc stepped closer to Remy, settling a hand down on his shoulder. "It's no use fightin' dem, boy. Listen to y'pere. I know what I'm talkin' bout."

One final pat and he left, walked right out the door and shut it carefully behind him.

As soon as the seal hissed closed, the strength left Remy's knees, and he crashed to the floor. He could've won this thing if it was physical. He could probably have even withstood a mental attack with his considerable psychic barriers. But to go after his emotions was to find his weak point. Using the people he loved as a way to further break his spirit was possibly the most effective tactic they could employ. He laid his head on the cool concrete, but it was a long time before he drifted off to sleep.

...tbc...

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A/N: _Faucon _means hawk, I hope. I thought it would be better for Remy to come up with nicknames for the guards instead of me typing 'the guard' a thousand times in one paragraph. As always, lemme know what you think!


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: If anyone can believe it, here's an update. I don't really have an excuse for it taking so long, other than maybe I wasn't all that happy with my writing. But I like this chapter, and I hope you guys do to. As always, please let me know either way.

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The visit from the shape-shifter had the opposite effect on Remy than what his captors had planned. Instead of making him lose hope, and pushing him even further towards his breaking point, the plagiarism of his loved ones countenances only angered him. And an angry Remy was a force to be reckoned with.

He took their abuse with his chin held high, and a smile forced onto his gaunt features. He used every vile and underhanded insult he knew, and he used them often. He cursed the guards, their mothers, their grandmothers, their great grandmothers, their aunts and uncles, and nearly any other relation he could think of. He laughed in the face of their attempts to break him.

On the outside, he was every bit the defiant captive, resistant to all their methods of torture. On the inside, however, he was running out of strength.

"Dat was fun today, hommes," Remy said, blinking past the spots that still clouded his vision. The guards supporting him on either side said nothing, and not one to take a hint, Remy continued.

"De acid burns, dat was art. DaVinci himself would be put t'shame."

He was being dragged back to his cell after another enlightening session in the Playhouse, during which his captors once again failed to gain any useful information. This time, however, was an anomaly. After being freed from the chair, the guards had simply hefted the barely conscious Remy between them, and without blindfolding him, taken him back to his cell. Unfortunately, the view during the short trip wasn't anything Remy couldn't have seen in his cell, without the pain, torture, and attempts at humiliation.

"Should I expect you back at de same time tomorrow?" Remy asked, as they arrived at the now familiar steel door. He had never seen the door from this side, but he nonetheless knew with strange conviction what lay on the other side.

The guard on his right swiped a key card on the control pad next to the door, and while the guard on his left blocked Remy's vision, the first guard entered the four-digit pass code. The door slid open, and the hotheaded thief was tossed unceremoniously onto his mattress.

As the door closed behind them, Remy winced as he rolled over onto his back. The movement pulled on days old injuries still healing, and the blackness waiting at the edges of his vision began encroaching.

He fought the approaching darkness, and struggled up into a sitting position. Something was different. His mind, befuddled and confused by the agony his body had been put through, took several minutes to put it together. When it did, the pain that had become a permanent fixture was suddenly forgotten. He leaned slowly forward, red on black eyes as wide as saucers, transfixed by what they saw.

A man lay prone in the middle of the concrete floor, wrists and ankles bound tightly enough to create a loss of circulation. A burlap sack was pulled down over his head, obscuring his features from view. He was dressed similarly to Remy, although the new prisoner's clothes were in much better shape.

An inner voice told Remy he should be careful, that it would not be unlike these people to try to fool him once more. He had been burned before by a practised shape-shifter, and he would be wise to be wary this time.

So he remained on his cot, watching the man begin to wake up, and struggle against the restraints, with a mixture of pity, and anger on his face. On one hand, he felt bad that another soul was in the same position as he was, and had been for the past two weeks. On the other hand, if it proved to be a fake, he was angry they had the gall to try again, and to think he would be fooled.

"Is anybody there?" A deep, raw voice spoke out from underneath the burlap. The man pulled against the zip ties binding his wrists together, but all his efforts were in vain. The plastic restraints were not giving.

The undercurrents of fear and desperateness pulled at Remy's heartstrings, until he remembered how broken and hopeless he had felt when Rogue turned out not to be Rogue after all. He said nothing.

"I can hear someone breathing. I know you're there. Help me out of these damn things."

The commanding tone, in addition to the fact that he had not said please, jostled something in Remy's mind, touched on fuzzy memories he had kept hidden these past days. He knew he should recognize the voice from somewhere, but again, his addled mind was having difficulties making the connections. He shook his head in frustration.

Apparently having worked through whatever drug cocktail had kept him down, the man now started struggling in earnest, both pulling at the zip ties, and moving his head back and forth rapidly, in an effort to dislodge the sack.

He eventually succeeded, by rolling over onto his knees and shaking it off with the assistance of gravity.

Remy sat back a little. The man was facing the opposite direction, and from where he sat, Remy could see nothing but brown hair in an absolutely hideous crew cut. The sight of that hair provoked something in him, an intensely strong urge to disobey anything even remotely resembling an order. He blinked in surprise at the feelings that rose up within his chest, though not all were bad.

The man pivoted on his knees, still bound at wrists and ankles, and lifted his eyes to see who exactly it was that had not come to his aid, but had instead watched his struggles from afar. Wide blue eyes widened even further.

"Gambit?"

Remy snorted. He wasn't sure whether he should laugh at his captor's under-estimation of his intelligence, or if he should feel insulted that they think he was that stupid.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Why don' you tell me, homme. You be de reason I'm here, enh?" He scooted back further on the cot, until his back hit the wall. With his knees tucked under his chin, and his arms wrapped around his shins, he looked every inch the young boy he never got a chance to be.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Wannabe Scott Summers looked a little miffed, but Remy found he couldn't care less. If this Scott was any bit as good as Storm and Rogue had been, he was likely to get even more miffed. "Would you help me out of these damn things?"

Remy laughed brokenly. "Don't t'ink so. Gambit like dis view a lot better. Dem t'ings ain't very comfortable, are dey?"

"What the hell is the matter with you? Of course they aren't comfortable. They're cutting of my fucking circulation." He glared at Remy as if he could somehow summon the real Scott Summers mutant powers, and blast Remy's head clean off his shoulders.

The Cajun smirked. "What, you getting' pissed Gambit don' believe ya dis time? Fool me once, and all dat crap."

Scott-Substitute paused for a minute, his gaze narrowed as he studied his cellmate. "Did they drug you or something? I know you like to piss me off, but this is going a little far, don't you think?"

He crawled over on his knees, and bent down, trying to peer up and into Remy's eyes. In doing so, he gave Remy an unobstructed view of the back of the neck. The back of his neck with a small, rectangular distortion, stained with dried blood. Surely the shape shifter wouldn't have injected a microchip into his own neck, just for effect. And even if he had, it would've left him unable to control his mutant powers. So that would have to mean… Remy promptly froze, and the colour drained from his face as he realized the implications.

"Fearless?" He asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Scott looked at him as if he was growing another head. He sat back on his heels, and said, "Of course it's me. Who else would it be?"

Remy thought quickly. Luckily, as a thief, he had a lot of practise. "Prove it. Jean has a birthmark shaped like a moon. Where is it?"

Scott blinked in surprise. "Why do you want…" His blue eyes narrowed into slits once more, and he rose up on his knees. "How the hell do you know about her birthmark?"

"Never mind dat, Fearless. Answer de damn question."

Scott frowned, and looked as if he might start something, but then he sighed. "It's right below her hipbone. You can't even see it when she wears that yellow bikini. So I'll ask again. How do you know about her birthmark?"

Remy silently cursed his seemingly genius proof of identity. "Dere was…an incident." He glanced up at Scott's face, then said with a sigh, "She was in de locker room showers. I t'ought she was Rogue."

He waited until he was sure Scott wasn't going to go at him before lowering himself to the concrete and helping his cellmate out of the bindings. Scott remained on the floor, rubbing at his ankles with both hands to restore blood flow, but Remy returned to the cot.

"Why did you need proof it was me? What the hell is going on?"

"You prolly know as much as me, mon ami." When it appeared as if Scott has nothing to add to conversation but a whole lot of glaring, Remy continued. "Whoever is holding us here has a shape-shifter workin' for dem. He already tried to work me."

"What do they want?" Scott rose gracefully to his feet, despite having been shackled moments before, and standing at the door, ran his hands along the seams, much like Remy had done his first day.

"Damned if I know," Remy replied with a snarl. "Dey seem intent on tryin' to break me. I don' know if dat's just how dey get deir kicks, or if dey need somet'in', y'know?"

Scott paused in his examination of the door, turned to face Remy. His eyes narrowed for the third time in what seemed as many minutes, and Remy grew faintly uncomfortable as his gaze roamed all over.

"You look like shit," he said finally, and when he took a step closer, Remy scooted back further, until his back hit the concrete wall behind him.

Scott noticed the defensiveness, and quickly grew alarmed. "Jesus, Remy, I'm not going to hurt you. You don't think that, do you?"

In embarrassed response, Remy ducked his head until his chin rested on his chest. "No, Fearless, I don' t'ink dat. It's jes'…it's hard, y'know?"

There was a long silence as Scott seemed to become acquainted with the situation. He paced the area of the cell in front of Remy, cracking his knuckles in nervous agitation. Every few steps, he would pause suddenly, and turn to regard his teammate, still sitting on the cot, staring down at his hands in his lap.

After what seemed like an eternity of pacing, pausing and staring, at least to Remy, Scott finally appeared to decide on a course of action. He took a careful step towards the younger man, and when he witnessed no negative response, he closed the rest of the distance and sat gently on the edge of the cot. He waited briefly for Remy to look up at him, but then realized he could grow old and grey while waiting.

"We need to get you out of here."

Remy snorted sarcastic laughter, the ultimate anti-climactic moment given the emotional undertones of the cell. He lifted his chin to stare at Scott incredulously.

"Dat's your idea? De great Fearless Leader came up wit' somet'ing I knew de first day heah? Why don' y'start pacin' again? Mebbe y'can come up wit' somet'ing better."

Scott wisely chose to ignore the dripping sarcasm. "This doesn't make sense. Why you? If these people know as much about us as they seem to, then why don't they know I'm the leader of the team? Why would they torture you for information when they have me?"

"Hey, I'd be more dan willin' to change places wit' you, but I don't t'ink dey'll go fer dat. Some people jes' have de special t'ing, y'know? Some nameless quality dat makes people want to torture dem."

"Goddammit, Remy! Can't you take any of this seriously!" Scott launched himself to his feet, and renewed with vigour his empathic pacing. "You're so infuriating! Do you not understand what kind of situation we're in right now?"

Remy didn't move from the cot, but his gaze turned so cold Scott wondered if he could give Bobby Drake a run for his money. He shivered with the intensity of the glare. "I know de situation, homme. In case you've forgotten, I be de one wit' de acid burns, de cigarette burns, de fuckin' broken ribs! Mebbe I didn' go t'Harvard like you and yours, but I know a bad situation. I reckon I been in more den you durin' m'lifetime, so why don' y'shut your fuckin' mout', and lemme get some rest? De guards will be back fo' me soon 'nough, so you can plan yo' escape wit'out m'sarcasm in y'way, enh?"

With a stifled grimace, Remy carefully turned over on the cot, and settled into a position that was as comfortable as he could get while taking the pressure off his injuries. He waited a brief minute for Scott to say something further, but when he could hear nothing but silence, he squeezed his eyes shut, and forced himself to sleep.

Remy startled awake sometime later, sitting up with a wince and unsure of exactly what had woken him. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, tested the stiffness of his muscles, and looked around the cell he had rapidly come to think of as home.

Scott was sitting crossed legged in the middle of the floor, looking expectantly as his Cajun cellmate. A metal tray sat in front of him, a plate of something that looked lumpy and greyish was sitting next to a plastic spoon on top of it. There was no water.

Remy groaned, and started to turn over again. He had already sampled the cuisine provided by his captors, and could honestly say that at this point, he would rather go hungry. Calling that stuff gruel would not only be a drastic overstatement, but an insult to gruel as well.

"Remy, you have to eat something."

Even after sleeping off the anger he had felt earlier, Scott's voice still grated on Remy's nerves. "I don' hafta do anyt'ing, homme. B'sides, 'm not hungry. Y'can have it. Bon appetit."

"You need to keep your strength up. Even if the food does look like some radiological by-product."

Remy heaved a sigh, winced when it pushed against sore ribs, and turned back over. It was clear to him that Scott was in one of his more annoying 'den mother' moods, which meant he wouldn't let him sleep until Remy gave him some pretty damn good reasons why he shouldn't eat that gruel that might even be sentient.

"And if it's drugged? What if dey put some ketamine in dere? I eat a spoonful, and 'm out like a light. Den dey can do whatevah dey want? I don' t'ink so."

He started to turn over for a second time, but Scott's words gave him pause. "I'll keep watch."

When Remy didn't immediately turn down the idea, Scott continued. "You can't afford to keep missing meals, Remy. Just eat it. If it is drugged, and you go down, I'll make sure no one touches you, all right?"

Remy eyed Scott, and the plate of mysterious food with equal parts suspicion. Intellectually, he knew that his lack of hunger pains didn't necessarily mean his body didn't need nourishment. It was more likely that his system was working overtime trying to fix all his injuries. It just wouldn't have any energy to spare to sound out the hunger alarms. And Scott did make a good proposition. Of course, it all came down to trust. Did Remy trust the Fearless Leader to keep him safe? Did he really believe that Scott would lay himself on the line to keep his teammate from getting injured any further? Remy studied the man who was still watching him with an expectant look on his face. His personal likes or dislikes aside, he had never seen Scott be anything but selfless when it came to another member of the team. And as he peered into Scott's uncovered blue eyes, he saw strong conviction there, and Remy knew that no harm would come to him, should he fall unconscious.

He nodded slowly, and got up from his laying position as carefully as possible. Scott grabbed the metal tray and stood, mindful not to spill any. Remy muttered a quiet thanks when his cellmate set the tray down on the cot beside him.

Sadly, the gruel was everything that Remy expected it to be. Lucky for him, it had very little taste, although there was a grainy quality that made his stomach turn even as he was eating it. He despised not being in control, and eating something when he didn't know anything about it definitely fell under that category.

But he did notice something astounding while he ate. True to his promise, Scott sat in the same position he had been in when Remy had first woken, watching him swallow the pseudo-food with a grimace on his face. To be honest, he wasn't sure if Scott was watching him to keep his promise, or simply to make sure he ate every last ounce what was on his plate.

When he finally finished, and set the plate back down, he felt sleepy and a little awkward. But he reckoned that was more of a side effect of finally getting some food in him, than any sign that a drug had been planted.

Scott eyes him warily. "How do you feel?"

Remy took a moment to consider the question. "Okay, I guess. Little tired, but not violated." He paused, thought about what he just said, than amended, "At least, not chemically."

Scott's resulting smile was at complete odds with the situation. "Good. You look a little better. More colour in your cheeks."

Remy raised a hand to stroke his fingers across the hollows of his cheeks, and supposed Scott was trying to make him feel better about eating than actually expressing his belief.

"So, what's y'plan fo' getting' outta dis hellhole?" Remy asked, partly because he was curious as to what Scott had done while he was sleeping, and partly to take the attention of himself.

It worked better than he had hoped.

"I don't have one yet," Scott replied truthfully, rising to his feet slowly. He collected the tray and dirty plate, and set it down by the cell door. "I thought it would be easier to plan on together. Who better to engineer an escape than a master thief?"

Remy rolled his eyes at the blatant praise. Scott was clearly trying to make right whatever had happened between them before Remy had fallen asleep. The last time he had complimented Remy on his career choice had been…Come to think of it, Remy didn't think it had ever happened before.

"If I could find a way outta heah, d'ya really t'ink I'd be sittin' on dis god awful cot, eatin' dat po' excuse fo' low protein gruel?"

"I'm willing to secede your point, I'm going to ignore the sarcasm." He rubbed his hands roughly on his thighs, and looked carefully around the room. "We need some kind of weapon." His eyes fell on the silver bucket in the corner.

Again, Remy snorted laughter. "What, you plan on dumping urine on deir heads? I don' t'ink dat'll stand up against de tasers."

Scott sent Remy his own brand of glare. "Well, I don't see you contributing any to the brainstorming."

Remy smiled faintly, and shook his head slowly. "Why don' I try to grab somet'in' when dey take me away? Mebbe dey'll turn deir backs, and I can grab a fire poker, or somet'in?"

The lines on Scott's face quickly grew angry, and Remy knew he was wrong to mention the torture. Most people didn't do well when confronted with proof of the horrible things people could do to one another. But just as suddenly as it appeared, the sharp lines melted away. He leapt to his feet, and tried to peer out the tiny window.

"Do you hear that? Someone's coming!"

'Well, guess dey're early today,' Remy thought to himself, but wisely did not voice it out loud. If he gave himself the opportunity to think about it, it would surprise him a great deal how quickly he had grown accustomed to their treatment, and to their schedule. While Scott paced the cell like an ADD suffering squirrel, Remy simply rolled over onto his stomach and clasped his hands behind his back. With a cellmate to keep him company, to lend him strength, he knew it would be that much easier to resist their methods of torture. And that much easier for him to find the resources to escape. But to let his captors know how much having Scott with him helped him would be to play his hand too soon. They had to think he was just as beaten, and just as witless as he had been before. Otherwise they might separate them, and as much as Remy had hated Scott up until this point, he wasn't sure he could take being alone again.

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A/N: Did anyone see that coming? I love the idea of Scott and Remy, two people who couldn't possibly be more different, stuck in a situation like that. Anyways, there are more chapters coming. Just bear with me! 


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